


Ever and Ever

by Whisper



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, F/M, If you think Mary Sues are a thing get out of my face, Original Character(s), Return of the King, Romance, The Two Towers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper/pseuds/Whisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Shieldmaiden of Rohan and daughter of the Lord and Lady of Fenmarch, Calahdra Cahlaniel is driven by her duty to King and Country. Rohan is withering under the weight of the war, but Calahdra dares to fall in love. Yet how could should give all for her people when she suddenly finds she has so much to live for?</p>
<p>Rewrite of initial publication on ff.net 2009-2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The wind was playing with the Snowbourne, and the sun caressed its rippling surface as it set behind the White Mountains. I sat on a hill before the river, my knees tucked beneath my chin, my hair loose and untamed about my face. Behind me, my mare whinnied impatiently. She knew as well as I that as night fell over the Westemnet, the fields and moors of Rohan became dangerously dark, and that death followed travelers at night like their shadows did during the day. I stood wearily, my body aching from my long held seat on the hillside. Long had I watched the Snowbourne that day, following its constant currents with my weary eyes.

  


I rode back to Edoras lazily; Meduseld, as grand as it was, had become a prison for many. What with the ailing King and his pet snake ever at his side, there was little to celebrate within the great Hall. It had been a home to me for little more than five months, and yet for all its coldness and near cruelty, due mostly to the gloom that came creeping about with the rumors of war, it had been the kindest home I had ever known. With Meleare stabled and groomed, I retired to my quarters unnoticed… much to my gratification. My presence had become a constant thorn in Wormtongue’s side, but he was too much of a coward to confront me, and instead prodded some of the burlier, less respectable soldiers into harassing me. I began to settle in for the night and sat at my dressing desk. I brushed at my hair, staring at the drapes fluttering about my window. I turned back, and was suddenly stilled by the reflection that stared back at me.

  
  
I had grown up in a small southern fief on the border of the Firien Wood and the Mering Stream, not but a few leagues from Gondor, but I looked like neither a woman of the Rohirrim or a lady of our neighbors. I had been raised as a lady and warrior both, as was the custom in our country for families of high esteem and office. In truth, the people of my father’s province held their Marshal in high regard. My mother, however, was not loved at all.

  


And though I looked much more like her, with her dark hair and icy eyes, like the stone and sky and not like the earth, the people of my father’s fief had loved me. For a while, peace had ruled over our land like the seasons did, each year bringing with it predictable change. Petty scandals and court drama were the only turmoil my people knew, and my mother’s heritage made me a topic of contestation at sewing circles and on market days. But when the dawning days of war came swiftly in my young years, my mother and my bloodline were tossed aside while arms and ointments were taken up.

  


So too, perhaps, was any hope my family or court may have had to make me a proper, marriageable lady. I was taught to fight and to ride and to accept the deaths of those that were named as ‘enemies’ before words of courtship or dowries were ever mentioned. With every farming family or herd that was lost, it seemed that another weapon was thrust at me in the yard, or a larger horse appeared in our stable.

  


I was smaller than the other children that were trained; slighter and more agile. What I lacked in strength, I made up for in grace and logic; a product of my blood, and though in peacetimes it would have been a curse and cause for teasing, my size and skill became respected. And for two seasons of every passing year, I became another sword beneath my father’s roaming banner, serving beside him as a page and then a second, hunting out orcs and wolves and the other fell beasts of the woods and mountains.

  


The remainder of my year, however, was spent under the tutelage of my mother. A sharp contrast it was indeed to the lifestyle I was better accustomed to, but I suffered it for a little while. She refused to abandon all hope for a lady-daughter, and so I became proficient in languages and maths, basic healing and the running of the house. The arts of her own people she kept mostly hidden from me, though over time she shared some knowledge on the condition I kept it hidden.

  


That was all until several months past, when the whispers of war became far louder, and I felt within me a compelling urge to ride out against my mother’s orders.

 

I had always rebelled against her in this way or that, and eventually she grew to resent it.  After twenty-one summers beneath the eaves of the Firien Wood, my father, still reliant on the aid and leadership of my elder brothers, sent me off to Meduseld as his representative to the court. Perhaps in another age, my womanhood would have prevented such a thing, and as it turned out, Meduseld already had enough handmaids. And so it was that I was named Shieldmaiden, and granted the same privilege and status of any the King’s other warrior charges or captains. And yet, for all my skill in battle and training in the ways of aristocracy, I was unlooked for and unwanted in a time where the mention of the word ‘war’ in the halls of Edoras often resulted in a beating for a man and far worse for a woman.

  


Despite the irrational denial of it by Th&eacuteoden King, and his councilor, Grima Wormtongue, discontent grew ever stronger amongst those that had witnessed the evidence of the war at hand. But proposals for action went unanswered, and instead were marked as dissent and warmongering. These were the lies spun by Wormtongue, whispered into the ear of a withering King. And in the confusion and fear of our Capital’s people, these lies were warped into a false truth.

 

A pity it was, for our pastureland was burned and our children were orphaned while a blinded King sat idly on a gilded throne.

  


With my thoughts buried in dark memories, I succumbed to the growing dark of night and fell into something like sleep.

 

* * *

The next day was much the same. I woke early to complete my chores and training with the charges my age, and then rode to the Snowbourne. I settled on the same hill as I had the day before about an hour before sunrise. This time, I had brought a grindstone and set to sharpening my daggers and hunting knife. Behind me, Meleare snickered to herself softly as she cropped the frozen grasses and herbs sprouting on the hillside. I reached out every once and a while to stroke her foreleg, and she would blow warm air at my face in thanks. 

  
  
She was very young, as war horses went, for she had been a foal when she was gifted to me on my nineteenth Begetting Day.  My mother had hated the prospect of her daughter riding a creature designed to kill, but my Ada encouraged every bit of protection I could harbor for myself while I rode with him. She was more than a shield, though, and perhaps like my mothers’ folk, I thought of the gentle mare as a friend. 

  
  
The sun rose up over the rooftops of Edoras sooner than I had expected, painting the city in a primrose wash. I smiled at the sight, imagining the city as it began to stir. Long moments passed while I heard the first bells begin to chime and watched as smoke from chimneys grew thicker, the smell of baking bread carried on whisps of a cool breeze. My post upon the hillside was neither lively nor boring; scenes such as these were a daily comfort.

  


When I turned back to the plains, I cursed myself for my lapse; Three horses, one a brilliant white, another gray, another chestnut, were racing towards Edoras. I rose, watching as they sped through the shallow banks of the Snowbourne and continued up the hill to the city. I watched after them for but a half-second before sheathing my daggers and clacking my tongue for Meleare.

 

I kept a fair distance behind them and they did not appear to notice me, for Meleare’s footfalls were light. They slowed only as they passed by the funeral mounds of the court. When they took back to the reigns, I followed them to the city gates, and watched them dismount as they were confronted by the gate keeper, Hama, who led them to Meduseld.

 

I led Meleare through the unmanned gate and through the backstreets of Edoras. We darted through crowds of people gathered about market stalls and wells, all the while making a course for the stables. When at last we arrived, I passed Meleare to a groom and raced to the servants’ entrance of Meduseld. I stopped short at the sight of two guards now standing on either side of it.

 

“Morning,” I murmured, and made to pass through the door. A spear suddenly blocked my way, and a chuckle sounded from one of the men.

 

“You must give us your name and purpose, little miss,”

 

I looked from one man to the other, scowling at the amused looks upon their churlish faces.

 

“And when was that deemed necessary, I might ask? Another of Wormtongue’s missives?”

 

The men shared a look, and both stepped towards me. The burlier one rested a hand on his knife.

 

“It would do you well not to ask questions where they are not looked for, half-breed bitch. Now give us your name and purpose, or we will be apt to punish you as we see fit,”

 

A spark came to the eye of the other guard as the first said this, and I saw his gaze drop from my face and onto several other areas of my person. I pulled my cloak about myself, as if my sudden shivering was a symptom of Winter’s clinging chill.

 

“I am an honored guest of the King’s, and you know well what my name is. My purpose is my own, as it ever has been,” I announced, subconsciously fingering the hilt of my own knife beneath the folds of my cloak.

 

The brutish man stepped closer to me, his hot breath breaking over my face as he loomed above me.

 

“A guest you may have been, but some feel that your stay is long overdone. Women are not soldiers, and _you_ no soldier. Now give me,” he growled, pulling his knife completely free, “your name and purpose,”

 

I looked to my left, finding that those I had been following were now ascending the stairs to the Golden Hall. My stubbornness fell.

 

“My name is Calahdra of Fenmarch, and I wish to enter the Halls of the King, as is my right as Shieldmaiden to our liege,”

           

The guards shared another look, and before they were given the chance to demand any more of me, I darted between them and through the door.

 

My eyes took some time to adjust to the gloom of the Hall, for the windows had been covered and the fire had not been tended as they often were. But when at last I could see, I crept into the shadows of a pillar and gazed upon the main door.

 

A knock sounded upon it moments later, and the double doors opened with an unkempt screech.

  


I did not appear to be the only one perplexed by the curious quartet now striding purposefully towards Th´oden’s throne. The center most figure and most prominent to my eyes was an elderly man, cloaked in grey and black. I would not have noticed him if it were not for the way my skin seemed to crawl at the sight of him. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but rather a warning to me that this man was more than he appeared... and he did not appear to be much at all. 

  
  
The man next to him was handsome and dark, with a rough mane of black hair about his head and a regal spark to his weathered eyes. On his far side was a burly dwarf –the first I had ever seen though I recognized him immediately from his wild hair and wilder eyes.  

  
  
I was glad that I looked at those three before the last, for it seemed that as I beheld him, little else mattered to my eyes. 

  
  
Tall, stately, sculpted. He was a creature out of a fantasy. His golden locks shone even in the dim light of Meduseld, and his bright gray-green eyes sparkled furiously. The aura of a warrior clung to him, and I was drawn to it like a hapless moth to flame.   


  
Perfection was the only word that truly seemed to do him justice.


	2. Chapter 2

Just as I stood out from the column, trying to find a new angle to admire the blonde warrior from, his eyes met mine. I froze. At first, his gaze was an assault. A great wave of emotion nearly overwhelmed me, and his eyes seemed to be the only things holding me upwards. As I fought to remain upright while also breaking the grasp of his eyes, his brow furrowed slightly, a single crease dividing his brows.

He knew, he had recognized. We were of the same race, he and I.

His head tilted as he looked at me, and as if we had shared the same realization in tandem, his eyes softened. He seemed to sway a little, as if debating whether or not to come to me. Yet he remained, and turned once more to the King. I watched after him. The growing audience and myself could make little sense of what happened afterwards. Words were exchanged between the Worm and the elderly man, and the three other riders took defensive stances behind him.

My eyes were glazed over, my mind trapped in the lingering haze of those piercingly blue eyes until a single crack and flash of lightening broke through my reverie.

Gasps lit throughout the hall, and I looked to Wormtongue to see him sprawled out over the steps leading to the King’s throne. Th&eacuteon stood, and Éowyn, who had been waiting as always at her uncle’s side, came to him. The old man, now clad in brilliant white, bade her away.

I clutched at my pillar, feeling somewhat lightheaded and regretting fiercely that I had missed whatever it was that passed between the man  -Gandalf, he was called- and the King.

Th&eacuteon now stood at the doors of Meduseld, and the cool wind played in the hair of everyone  in the room. Only one set of locks captured my attention, though. Pure gold seemed to be tickling the air behind the man, and several sections of it were braided and bound with beads. Like rays of the sun, I thought, brandishing like blades.

Wormtongue was quite literally cast out, and Th&eacuteon’s voice –missing from his hall for so long- rang out. I wandered closer, curious and yet still fixated on discovering the identity of this stranger who was of my kin. As I wove slowly through the crowd, I began to break from my thoughts as a dual part of my mind drew nearer to the King’s words, clear and coherent for the first time in my days at court.

“… Your witchcraft,” I heard Theoden accuse, nearing Wormtongue’s shaking body with his greatsword in hand. Though when he lunged, Theoden’s sword arm was caught up by the dark-haired newcomer, who seemed to plead with him for an end to the violence Grima had stirred. I clutched at the back of a bench until my knuckles ached, part of me willing the King to break free and end his treacherous councilor.   
  
“My lady, are you well?”  
  
The voice was so soft, like the caress of a flower petal against one’s skin.   
  
I turned, at once aware that it was _him._ “Yes, my lord, I am.”  
  
He smiled at me, soft crows-feet gathering up at the edges of those illustrious eyes. “May I ask your name?”

I was hesitant for a moment, unaccustomed to such cordiality in the Golden Hall. I offered him a timid smile in return. “Yes, for ‘my lady’ is far too formal for a Shieldmaiden,”

Though his eyes then swept over me, he did not seem to fully comprehend the meaning of the word.

“My name is Calahdra Cahlaniel,”

His smooth brow creased once more, though not as severely as before.

“Of Fenmarch,” I added, having forgotten.

But he continued to study me, silent. “My lord?” I asked, caution beginning to bloom in my chest.

“That is a powerful name, Calahdra. One with elvish roots,”

Some part of me, a childish part, wished to pour out to him the truth. _“Yes,”_ I wanted to say, _“you understand. You_ see _”_ , for no one else in Rohan besides my own brothers had ever seen me and understood, and _accepted_ , at a first glance. But I stole those thoughts up in myself, and simply nodded to him.

“My name is Legolas,” he said with a gentleman’s nod, his accent rendering the Westron translation almost comical.

“Legolas is a fine name, my lord. A powerful name. One with elvish roots,” I offered back, feeling the corner of my mouth tug up.

A moment passed in which he was silent, but his face melted before he guffawed, walking forward towards the open doors and waving me with him.

When his laughter faded to a smile, Legolas turned to look at me for some for a long moment, still trailing after the mix of city-folk and guardsmen that had gathered behind the King as he walked his amongst his city for the first time in many months. The elf’s subtle scrutiny of my features would have bothered me, made me blush even, but I was too preoccupied looking him over as well.

“Legolas! Leave that poor woman! Come, Gandalf wishes to speak to us,”

Legolas tore his eyes from me and looked down at his companion dwarf, who was resting a very imposing axe on one of the steps leading up to the walkway that ran about the perimeter of the Hall. I looked over the stout person’s mass of hair, feeling somewhat frightened by it.

“She’s not poor, Gimli, quite the contrary. But I will come, if Mithrandir wishes it,” Legolas said, an amiable twinkle in his eyes.

He turned to me. “Will I see you again in court, my lady?  My companions and I plan for an overnight stay.”

“Certainly. And please, it is Calahdra. ‘My lady’ is far too bold for my station,” I admitted, a blush finally painting my cheeks.

“Your station of Shieldmaiden?”

The word seemed harsh on his tongue, as he clearly had never spoken it much less heard it. I nodded once more.

Legolas smiled, a gentleness coming to his smooth face that made me feel at ease at once. “Amathgwend, I name you then, for you are very young to claim that you can wield a blade and shield among these other men,” he said, gesturing to the pockets of haggard soldiers about the hall.

I gave him a crooked grin. “Perhaps I’d rather see you again in the yard than in the court, Legolas Greenleaf.”

Legolas looked at me for a moment, an odd look on his face.

“Perhaps, I would as well.” And he departed after the procession.

 

* * *

 

 The day passed into mid-afternoon. I stayed indoors within the living quarters of Meduseld., aiding the staff and guards with preparing  guest quarters for our new arrivals under the gentle command of Lady Eowyn. A meal was to be prepared in honor of the King’s sudden recovery, as well, and as I cleaned samples of roasts and mead were shared amongst the Hall.

At the Lady’s behest, I set to finding suitable clothing and linens for the Legolas and his companions. I ransacked various closets and laundries about the grounds, greeting those I knew as I went. Though many of the guardsmen and members of the court were cold to me, the common folk that worked in the grounds of the palace had become quick friends. They often reminded me of my people in Fenmarch, and it was easy for me to settle into their banter and work.

Marmagen, head laundress of the barracks, had taken to me at once. She was a pudgy, elderly woman who had abandoned her husband when she had learned that she was incapable of giving her children. She was a reckless gossip, and was content to let me sit folding her dried linens as she jabbered.

I consulted her at once, desperately in need of finding new clothing for the strangers.

“I can probably find something, dear. Now tell me, were any of these men good looking. Were any of them sweet on you?”

I laughed, and as I did so, I could feel that my laughter was off, the sound too high and sharp.

“No, no, mum. Trust me, I think I scared them all, if anything,” I told her, although feeling guilty at the partial lie.

Marmagen smiled, the skin around her eyes wrinkled with sun and laughter. Yet, some part of her seemed disappointed. “Well, you’re bound to find someone eventually,” she murmured, turning back to her wash.

“What? A lover, Marma? I’m sure to find some here,” I said, waving my arms out the windows beyond the piles of laundry and steaming wash basins. I knew what the laundress had meant, but I wished fervently to deny it.

Marma smiled gently, and looked back at me. “Child, you’re a lady of the court even if you’ve fooled them with your dress and damned swords. You’re better than us common-folk.”

Her gritty voice had taken on a new tone, one I had not heard from her before. She sighed, scrubbing furiously at a stain on the hem of her own blouse. “Calahdra, girls your age aren’t fighting men twice their age or racing horses. They’re finding men to marry, men who’ll become the fathers of their children,”

I blushed at once. I had never expected her to say anything like this from her, and yet she stared me seriously in the eye, waiving a crooked finger in the air in front of me.

“You, girl, are no exception, regardless of how good you are at fighting, or the way you can speak to horses like they’re people. People in Rohan think you’re strange because of the way you look, but I’ve never seen anyone with more of Rohan in her heart. And if any of these strangers are young enough for you and have a hint of sense in them, I’d say that you could win one over with a look,”

I stared at Marmagen, and the way she looked back told me that the expression on my face was highly skeptical.

Without a doubt she must have known that I was no stranger to men or attraction; after 13 years of traipsing about war camps and other fiefs with almost only men at my side, I’d had interests and beaus. And without a doubt someday I would find a man among the soldiers I spent my time with that I would be made to marry and father children with for the sake of Fenmarch’s honor.

But love that man? Falling in love with him as my mother had loved my father, so intensely that she had abandoned all she knew and entered into a life of self-imposed exile? It seemed a mystery.

Falling, loving...they both seemed as deadly as fighting to me.


	3. Chapter 3

When the rooms were set and the kitchens too hot to stand, I fetched my bow and went to the archery range. I often spent my afternoons there, practicing my aim and proving my worth to nearby soldiers. There was no doubt that I was a better shot than any of them, but that I owed mostly to my elven blood.

Today was not a day representative of my skill. Whenever I envisioned my arrow striking the center of a target, Legolas’ face was all that I could manage to see, and my lack of focus infuriated me. Certainly a single man could not interfere so drastically with a talent that had I had mastered years ago.

But that was the crux: he was no man. He was an elf. The only elf besides my mother I had ever met.

I shook my head, though, and worked doubly hard to block all thoughts of golden hair or pointed ears from my mind. For every arrow that fell to the ground, I cursed myself aloud, eventually drawing the stares of passing pages and guardsmen.

An hour or so passed, and I had tuned out the sounds and sights around me, honing my focus as best I could. Yet for all my mental shielding, a single voice easily penetrated my ears.  
  
“You clearly have great skill, Amathgwend,”  
  
I nearly jumped at the honey-sweet voice, but my trance held, and I turned without falter to the elf behind me.

As I turned, I realized the irony in his nickname for me.  
  
“Greetings, Legolas,” I said, shielding my eyes from the sunlight haloing his face as I looked up at him. He surveyed me with warm eyes, and I could not help but smile a little at the sight of him. “Yet today it seems that my skill has been impeded on,”  
  
“You must be troubled by something, then. Come, tell me what is on your mind,” he implored, swinging his own long bow from his back.  
  
I paused for a moment, nocking another arrow and stroking the fletching with thumb and forefinger.  
  
“The King, he has been awakened, yes? Some charm on the part of your wizard companion?”

Legolas nodded, nocking his own arrow from the quiver now resting against his shins. “Gandalf claims that your King was bewitched by the sorcerer Saruman many months ago, his soul left to rot within him. Wormtongue saw to it that the bewitchment stayed intact, and his whisperings kept the King’s eye from Isengard while battles in the North continued.”

I stayed silent, and watched as Legolas raised his bow and fired, striking the bullseye target just left of center.

“Many suspected it before I had even arrived,” I told him, stepping right and drawing up my own bow. “The first weeks of summer,” I offered as his lips opened, and I turned and loosed my own arrow. It hit a handswidth above Legolas’ own.

I dropped my long bow to the top of my foot, leaning into the warm, polished yew. “He will take action, now. He would never allowed such isolationism against the invaders before Grima arrived,”

Legolas stood silent, leaning against the oak tree to his right and listening in earnest. I turned to him fully. “I have been in many battles, Legolas. And I was named Shieldmaiden as soon as I arrived –my father saw to it that I would be granted that. But Theoden-king… we have never spoken, he has never paid me any mind. And now I see that I will go to battle for him, to serve at his side, perhaps to die for him. That is… heavy, for me.”  
  
Legolas listened to my complaint with quiet consideration, and when he seemed certain I had finished, he nocked and loosed an arrow all in a blinding second. I raised my brows, impressed by his speed and form.  
  
“You have great skill yourself,” I pointed out.  
  
Legolas gave me a polite smile. “My passion. All my life,” he stated simply, and I understood. He turned back to the target then and shot two more arrows in quick succession.  
  
“I understand your fears, Calahdra Shieldmaiden. We warriors fight many battles, and only a few are besides those we love, or for causes that truly seem our own,”  
  
I nodded solemnly, and turned back to my own target, this time hitting my mark squarely. To my surprise, Legolas continued, his voice growing thicker.  
  
“My companions, we…We have been seeking our cause for many months. I left my home a long time prior, and still I wonder if I would be of better use among my own people. But it is my heart that tells me this, not my head. My duty lies here, along this path. Perhaps with your King, even,”  
  
I looked at him, a thousand questions clear in my eyes. He did not look back, and instead of questioning him further, I watched the muscles of his shoulder ripple with power as he loosed another arrow. With feline grace, his body danced the dance of a warrior. As his eyes sought for their mark, sinew upon sinew aligned sensuously in his hand, arms, and back. Each ligament coiled and pounced as the bowstring was let free, and after the seeming violence of the arrow's release, his muscles pulled back in on themselves, preparing at once for further onslaught.

I should not have stared, and though I knew it, he had an irresistible athletic charm.

  
After three more of his arrows were let loose, he looked back at me.  
  
“Why did you leave?” I asked, the most obvious of any of the questions I could have asked pouring forth from my already gaping mouth.  
  
Legolas grew silent and still, as if he was being hunted by some predator.  
  
"That is my own business,"  
  
"Then what is the story you are offering up? The people of Edoras demand to be sated, especially when strangers with such heavy arms seek out their King," I implored, refusing to be abashed by his brusque reply.

For a moment, a fierceness appeared in his face that almost looked like anger, but he gentled as I continued to match his gaze. “I am sorry, Calahdra,” he said solemnly, “but there is no false tale. Only the truth, which is for my companions and King Theoden alone to bare,”  
  
I looked back at my target, feeling the weight of his words.  
  
"What will you do now, now that you seem pledged to Theoden?"  
  
“I follow Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and my fate will be his,”  
  
He said this as if it was a recitation, something he had practiced aloud so many times that the words had lost all meaning. Yes, certainly I had suspected that the dark young man who had spared Grima’s life was the leader of their fellowship, but the devotion in Legolas’s response…  
  
“And if that fate is death?” I asked, my head cocked to the side.  
  
“Yes, even if his fate is death,” he whispered, loosing another arrow.  
  
We were silent for a time, left to ponder our separate fates. I was flooded with uncertainty, and yet also the familiar bloodlust of impending battle. Some part of me wished to return to my quarters and gather my weapons, like a child counting their wrapped presents before Yule. And another part of me wished to ride away, to be free of Meduseld and its dramas and cruelty and return to my fathers’ people and my mothers’ tidy sitting rooms. The confusion nearly pained me.  
  
Legolas, however, seemed fairly certain of his future, as vague as it was. And though I had known him for no more than a few hours, he thought of him dying stung me.  
  
“What else troubles you?” Legolas asked, clearly sensing at my mood with whatever elvish power he possessed.  
  
I tried desperately to reign in my feelings of confusion, blinking at him in silence. He came to me, one hand curved over his mahogany bow, the other coming to rest on my shoulder. I looked up and into his face, and at once it seemed to glow. He smiled softly and shook his head. “Let me try again,” He murmured, is voice so low it was nearly seductive. “Calahdra, tell me what troubles you,”

  
His coercion might have worked on a human woman, but I was not as entirely subject to his charms as a woman might have been, and I shook my head with a very unwomanly snort.  
  
“My business is my own,”  
  
“That is fair enough,” he responded, a touch of frustration in his town even as he smiled and turned away. “If that is so, then let us return to our archery, for it is as great a panacea as any,”

  
We carried on in companionable silence for a while more. When the sun began to set, I packed my bow and retrieved my arrows.  
  
“I enjoyed this,” Legolas told me as he bent to retrieve the last of his arrows, waving another hand about the yard, “sharing this time with you,”  
  
The statement, offered with such cordiality, made me shiver. There was something about his use of “sharing” that nearly made me flush. I nodded at him in agreement, and stood to farewell him as my last arrow was found.  
  
“As did I, Legolas. I hope to see you at supper,”  
  
“You shall,”  
  
We stared at each other for a moment, allowing the sounds of soldiers, horses, and weaponry to sink into silence. His unblinking eyes held mine fast, and yet I was left with the sense that my eyes captivated him as much as his did mine. The feeling was strange to me, and I looked away first.  
  
“Farewell,” I said, pulling my quiver tighter over my shoulder.  
  
“Navaer, Amathgwend,”

I watched as he walked away, the setting sunlight glinting off of his blonde locks. Never before had I been captivated by such a glorious, yet simple sight.

“Navaer, Legolas. No maer i thin,”

The whispered words were lost to the wind. And I stood as one who had no recollection of where she was or was intending to go. I felt hapless and confused and all at once filled with a great heat that had surely painted my cheeks crimson.

_'Who is this elf?'_ I thought, _'And why am I affected by him so?'_  
  
I turned away and fled to my quarters, where the feelings within me could manifest themselves into whatever wrath they chose fit.


	4. Chapter 4

Formal meals in the great Hall were always an unpleasantry for me. There were few women who kept a permanent residence in Meduseld, and I was one of them. Because I was not truly a handmaid, I was obligated to sup with the other dignitaries and officers in the Hall. Besides Eowyn, I was the only other woman to join the men at suppertime.  
  
Tonight, however, was an exception to the reasons for my anxiety.  


For the first time since I had arrived in Edoras, the King’s eye might be upon me, unclouded and with full comprehension of who I was. And so too would be the eyes of our guests, including Legolas.  
  
I bathed with unusual scrutiny, and spent an awfully inordinate bit of time debating between a gown and my usual garb. I dabbed at a particularly noticeable stain on my only truly suitable gown for at least six minutes, biting at my lip throughout the process until I drew blood. I settled on the leather jerkin and leggings my father had suggested I arrive in, and sheathed one of my Fenmarch heirloom blades at my hip in ceremony after smearing a touch of kohl around my eyes.   
  
As I walked into the Hall, I looked for the King first, and Legolas second.

The elf wasn’t there.

I paused at the entrance of the dinner hall dejectedly, realizing then that some of my anxiety had been over seeing him again. Sucking in a breath, I squared myself once more and strode to my seat at the table, four seats down from the King on the right, between Eowyn and the middle son of the Lord of the Downs, Medric.

  
I greeted both, and, wholly unnoticed by the King, supper wore on for me as it always had –brief pleasantries swapped with my neighbors (a few more with the tender Eowyn, like in my age and temper, than the 15 year old Medric), before descending into quiet solitude and good food.

I noted that Gandalf sat in Wormtongue’s old perch beside Theoden, and the two spoke quickly to each other after eating only a portion of the plate provided to them. But the sorcerer’s other companions never showed. When the plates were cleared for the final course –brandywine, pastries, and pipeweed that Eowyn and I were never welcome to, I excused myself.

  
That night, I wrapped myself in one of my softest furs, trekked out from my quarters, and sat on a cliff face behind Meduseld. I stared after the mountains, letting a frigid breeze paint my face red.   
  
A feeling much like misery consumed me.  
  
The plains of Rohan were ever an engrossing scene to look upon. The wind ripped across the fields with exceeding violence, tearing at the long stalks of grain and grass and stirring up what rocky dust remained looped within the roots of the sparse greens. In the darkness, I could not see the rippling, golden waves of wheat, but I could hear the whistle and scream of wind passing between rock and over the wide Snowbourne.

It was foolish of me, I knew, to wander to perhaps the most desolate place in all of Edoras in my loneliness. I missed home and I missed my father, and the cruel silence of Rohan’s capital at night wore through my melancholy far too fiercely.

To have abandoned all that I knew and pledge myself to my King, only to be ignored or menaced by his court… it stabbed and stabbed and stabbed at my dignity, at my _worth_ until sometimes all I could imagine when I closed my eyes at night was throwing myself into those cold, swift gusts across the plains.  
  
And yet each day I promised myself to stay alive, to stay alive so that –if the battle came- I might die an honorable death beside my King. _“For Fenmarch”,_ I would tell myself when a guard threw Rohirric insults after me in the corridors of Meduseld, or another day passed without a single human being speaking to me. _“For honor.”_

I so very badly wished that someone might find me, sitting there, in the lonely dark. I wished that they might hold me while I trembled, and whisper reassurances that my pledge was not in vain. Things that could remind me of brighter days, where the sun was warm and the wind was gentle even when murmurs of pillaged villages and defiled young women brought my playmates home early from our games.

Something about the thought of that brightness turned my mind to Legolas, and to his golden smile and solemn eyes. Intensely beautiful, frighteningly intriguing, and yet touched with a hint of darkness that was an obvious caution.   
  
Instead of fixating over the impossibility of my feelings for the elf I barely knew, I let his face simply loom within my consciousness, letting his voice drift on the screams of the wind. He calmed my pulse and found me peace even in my horrid waking dreams. Perhaps this distraction was exactly what I needed until Theoden King summoned the drumbeats of War.

  
“My lady?”   
  
I woke with a leap and a gasp.  
  
It seemed that I had fallen asleep where I had lain, and it was moments past dawn when a soldier found me.  
  
The absolute confusion in his eyes amused me, for I was sure that finding a young woman curled amongst rocks and lichens on a cliff face was far from what he was expecting to find along his early watch-route.   
  
“My lady?” he asked again, and it was clear that in his stupor he wasn’t sure how to say anything else.   
  
I said nothing as I scrambled away from him, tripping on fallen rocks and roots.   
  
I spent the rest of the morning dozing in bed. I was not in a mood to be bothered or stirred, and if my presence was necessary, then I assumed someone could come find me. “They won’t need me,” I said aloud into my furs, a little ruefully.   
  
The sun flickered over my face as the hours passed, and the sounds of the streets settled into a monotonous drone before long. I faded in and out of sleep, and although I was not tired, my gentle lazing helped to bring me a little peace, and soothed sore muscles I had earned from my long hours of archery the day prior.

   
At last, when I knew the dinner hall would soon be set once again, I drew myself from my bed, dressed in a tunic and breeches, and went to the stables. I was still caught in a state of groggy, half-consciousness, but I was awake enough to dodge the horses and soldiers in the courtyards and lawns between the stables.  
  
I went to Meleare in her stable stall, and I rested my head against her haunches.  
  
“I’ve slept too long today, Meleare. So long I have exhausted myself,”

The great chestnut’s lips slipped over my hair, grinding against a mouthful of oats as she soothed me. I smiled and patted her neck before setting to groom her.   
  
I clipped a rope onto her halter when I was certain she shined and led her to the adjourning paddock. I emptied Meleare into the crowded pasture with distaste at the number of neighbors she would have; the communal pasture held twenty horses when it should have held ten. “ _The King has already called for his council,”_ I thought as I measured up the unfamiliar steeds. Most were garrons and packhorses, but more than a few were chargers and coursers like Meleare.

I turned, stealing myself for supper. But as I entered the stable again, three guardsmen appeared before me. One leered as he stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest.

“Hello, little one. You look uncharacteristically slow today. Late night?”

I recognized the man as one of the two from the day earlier, the one so eager to call me a half-breed.

I attempted to step around him and through the gap he had made, but for one who reeked so badly of ale and liquor, he was surprisingly quick, and he caught me from behind at once.   
  
I heard a familiar whinny sound from behind me, and knew at once that Meleare was at the fence. She pawed the ground once, twice, before kicking squarely into a wooden post.

“Quiet that horse,” my captor hissed, and one of his two accomplices jogged forward.   
  
“Get off,” I growled, ripping at the man’s hands about my middle. Curling my fingers into claws, I dug my nails into the tendons in his wrists and he leapt back with a cry. “Stay away from me,” I hissed once more, but the last man came forward, his eyes shining with spirits and lust.  
  
“Come ‘ere, lil’ ‘ore,” he mumbled, reaching out for me blindly. With a wash of inspiration from my own horse, I stomped on the man’s foot, and then that of my captor. When he stepped back with a gasp, I turned in his arms and shoved him backwards into a rack of tack.

Determined not to stir up anymore contempt for myself and curtained Meleare could manage for herself among twenty other beasts, I fled, sprinting through the stable.   
  
“Come back, wench! Don’t be feisty!” one of the men called, and I doubled my speed.   
  
Gold flashed before me, and blue sapphires as well.   
  
“Legolas?” I breathed, pausing for a moment. But the possible sight of him was too much, too much to add to the many troubles upon me now. I pushed past him as well, and raced up to take my silent watch at the King’s table.

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrite of initial publication on ff.net 2009-2011, including major plot adjustments. Will post one chapter at a time as I rework it :) Kudos and comments are loved and appreciated! -Heather


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